


lines that i couldn't change

by oryx



Category: High and Low: the Story of S.W.O.R.D. (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 14:21:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11969214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oryx/pseuds/oryx
Summary: A slow day at Itokan leads to an impromptu vacation.





	lines that i couldn't change

The bell jingles overhead as he pushes open the door, louder than usual in the near-silence. There’s an odd kind of stillness about this place today, he thinks. Even the motes of dust in the slanted sunlight seem suspended in motion.  
   
“Where is everyone?” he asks.  
   
Tatsuya doesn’t even look back from where he’s methodically chopping herbs for the stew that’s simmering on the stove. “The new engine for Yamato’s bike came in,” he says. “They’re all out at the garage testing out the specs.”  
   
Kohaku hums in a way that sounds a bit like ‘oh, really.’ He ducks his way beneath the partition to get behind the bar and sidles up close behind Tatsuya, wrapping his arms around his waist and resting his chin on his shoulder. He smells good, like always – like soap and lemon and old wood.  
   
“Well,” he says, smiling against Tatsuya’s neck, “if no one’s here, then…”  
   
Tatsuya laughs. “It’s one in the afternoon, Kohaku.” He sets down his knife on the cutting board and turns so that they are standing nose to nose, amusement curving his mouth. “Y’know… How about we take a ride, instead? I know it’s been a while.”  
   
Kohaku blinks. “What, seriously?”  
   
“Yeah. That’s about as good as sex for you anyhow, isn’t it?” he says, leveling him with a wry look, and Kohaku has enough decency to be embarrassed by the truth in that statement, laughing and glancing away as he palms the back of his neck. “And I’ve been in the mood myself. To get away for a couple hours.”  
   
He turns off the heat on the stove and steps away to hang up his apron before sliding out from behind the counter, heading for the back room.  
   
“Taste that for me, will you?” he calls over his shoulder.  
   
Kohaku does as instructed, fishing a spoon out of the drawer in order to sample the contents of the pot. It’s good, and yet. He frowns. “I dunno,” he calls back. “It needs… something.”  
   
“Thought as much,” comes Tatsuya’s muffled voice. “I’m trying out a new recipe and it’s not quite working. I’ll make a new batch tomorrow – maybe that one will come out better.”  
   
Kohaku vaults over the bar and leans against it as he waits for him, flicking his lighter open and closed absentmindedly. It nearly slips straight through his fingers when Tatsuya steps out from the back room, having changed into a more casual riding outfit: jeans and a favorite old grey henley.  
   
And his Mugen jacket.  
   
“What do you think?” he says, raising an eyebrow as he straightens the collar. “Does it still suit me?”  
   
Kohaku can feel himself grinning. “Yeah,” he says, emphatic, stepping closer and reaching out to tug the hem forward, lingering there as he holds the leather between his fingertips. “Yeah, absolutely.”  
   
“Alright, don’t get too worked up about it,” Tatsuya says drily, with his usual kind of fond exasperation. “Karate chop!” He brings the edge of his palm down on the top of Kohaku’s head, and as he’s muttering ‘ow’ Tatsuya tosses him his keys.  
   
“C’mon,” he says with a smile. “Let’s get moving.”  
   
  
   
  
   
The best part is always this: when the city outskirts finally taper off into sparser, greener scenery, the roads getting emptier and emptier around them until they have it all to themselves. This is what they made Mugen for, after all – the wide open sky, the low roar of the engines, the road stretching endlessly in front of them. Nothing more than that.  
   
Tatsuya glides to a halt along an old bridge overlooking a river, and Kohaku follows suit, pulling up alongside him curiously. Tatsuya is fishing his phone out his pocket, and he shakes his head as he stares down at it.  
   
“Cobra’s asking where we went,” he says. “Guess I should’ve left a note.”  
   
“Those guys would be lost without you,” Kohaku says with a grin. He wonders why those words feel somewhat heavy and strange on his tongue.  
   
“Here,” Tatsuya says, lifting his phone and motioning for Kohaku to move in closer. “I’ll send him this as an answer.”  
   
Kohaku pops his kickstand and hops off his bike to sling an arm around his shoulders, flashing a peace sign as the phone camera shutter sound goes off. It’s a nice enough photo, when Tatsuya turns it around to show him, though the way the light reflects off the river behind them makes the two of them seem somewhat unfocused, fading away around the edges.  
   
“You want to stop somewhere for lunch?” Tatsuya asks, nonchalant as he sends off the text, and Kohaku pauses with his helmet still cradled in his hands.  
   
“For real?” He raises both eyebrows. “Aren’t you the one always giving me the ‘why bother buying a meal, I can just make you something back at Itokan’ spiel?”  
   
“Well someone has to watch their wallet between the two of us,” Tatsuya laughs. “But it has to get a bit boring eating my cooking every day. Right?”  
   
He gives Kohaku a knowing look as he clips his helmet back into place and twists the throttle, engine rumbling as he starts off again at a leisurely pace, heading for the end of the bridge.  
   
Kohaku stares after him for a moment.  
   
“As if it ever would,” he mutters, kicking his bike back into gear and hurrying to follow in his wake.  
   
Surprisingly, they find a place not ten minutes later – a little dive along the roadside, which by the fading sideboards looks like it must have stood there for a good thirty years or more. The matronly woman behind the counter gives them a brisk “welcome” as they push their way inside (they’re the only customers, save an old man and his grandson in the back) and take the table by the window. It’s so cramped (“cozy,” would be the kind way to put it) that their legs end up entangled beneath, though if Tatsuya minds his face doesn’t show it.  
   
Kohaku orders the omurice, just to play it safe, and finds himself frowning after the first bite.  
   
“Not as good as yours,” he says, and Tatsuya gives him an amused look over the rim of his water glass.  
   
They talk – about Ohta and Konishi’s latest matches, the grainy cellphone videos sent to them captioned with a row of determined-looking emojis. About Cobra’s upcoming birthday, the surprise party they were planning already partially ruined by Yamato’s big mouth. About the feud Kohaku had just barely managed to diffuse between Tsukumo and some out-of-town thugs the other day. Later, he won’t remember exactly what was said, only Tatsuya’s soft expressions, the comfortable slope of his shoulders, the way he leans forward in his seat with his arms folded on the tabletop.  
   
Somehow it’s already late afternoon by the time they pay their bill and step out the door. The sunlight against the cracked pavement seems orangeish and muted. He’s digging around in his pockets for a cigarette when Tatsuya’s hand comes to rest on his forearm, and Kohaku glances up, following his line of sight across the parking lot to where two men are towering over a terrified-looking teenage kid.  
   
“We probably shouldn’t get involved in other people’s affairs,” Tatsuya says. “It’s not like this is Mugen territory.” A pause. “Although.”  
   
They watch as one of the men slaps the kid hard across the face, the other reaching out to grab his chin with what looks like crushing force, and Kohaku can feel his eyes narrow.  
   
“Yeah, that’s a pretty big ‘although,’” he mutters.  
   
The kid’s wide eyes flick over to look at them pleadingly as they approach.  
   
“You all having some trouble?” Tatsuya asks, his voice pleasant enough to untrained ears. The two men turn slowly, teeth bared in matching scowls.  
   
“I don’t think that’s any of your fucking business,” one of them says. He’s distracted enough to loosen his grip on the kid, who twists away and makes a sudden dash for it. Kohaku catches him by the wrist before he can vanish.  
   
“Things won’t get worse for you if we kick these guys’ asses, will it?” he asks, and the kid shakes his head very quickly, looking every bit like a frightened animal. Kohaku smiles crookedly as he lets him go. “That’s what I was hoping to hear.”  
   
“Who the hell are you?” the other man asks, a sneer in his voice, and Kohaku is struck by a feeling of sudden euphoria.  
   
_They don’t recognize our jackets. They don’t know what Mugen is._  
   
“We’re just passing through,” Tatsuya says, as conversational as can be, as he takes a threatening step forward.  
   
It’s been a long, long time since he last saw Tatsuya fight. He never had that raw strength, but he was smart in a way that most of their enemies weren’t, that Kohaku wasn’t, either, able to read movements and react accordingly. It seems that at least hasn’t changed, as Tatsuya leans out of the arc of an incoming swing and steps in lightning fast to sink his fist into his opponent’s solar plexus.  
   
He’s beautiful. Kohaku stares at him and forgets where he is for a moment, and is brought back to himself by a blow to his jaw, the man’s knuckles connecting hard enough to rattle him, his head snapping to the side. He lifts a hand and rubs at the place where pain is blooming across his skin with a grin tugging at his mouth.  
   
“You’re gonna regret that,” he says, and doesn’t hesitate a second longer as he jumps forward to knee the man in the stomach.  
   
When all is said and done, they stand there next to one another with their breath coming quick, Kohaku looking at him silently – at his dark hair in disarray, sweat gleaming on the back of his neck, that old fire in his eyes fading gradually back into calmness.  
   
“Ah,” he says. “I guess it has been a while, hasn’t it?” He winces as he holds out his hands to examine the red, raw split of his knuckles. “My hands aren’t used to this sort of thing anymore.”  
   
Kohaku’s mouth is dry. There’s a tight, twisted sort of feeling in his chest as he reaches out to take Tatsuya’s hands in his, stroking a thumb along his fingers as he stares down at the wounds. _This will be troublesome for him, back at the café_ , says a voice in the corner of his mind, but it sounds very distant.  
   
“I’m sorry,” he says, and the words come out hoarse. “For getting you involved. If it wasn’t for me – maybe this wouldn’t have happened. Maybe – ”  
   
He breaks off, and when he glances up Tatsuya is looking at him so sadly he could swear he feels his heart stutter and stop.  
   
“I made my own choices, you know,” Tatsuya says, gentle yet firm. “You didn’t drag me into anything I didn’t want to be a part of. So don’t beat yourself up about it anymore, alright?” He pats Kohaku on the cheek, palm hot against the tender place where he got hit, and the staggering grief on his face clears in an instant. “Come on,” he says. “We still have a bit farther left to go.”  
   
  
   
  
   
‘A bit farther’ turns out to be another two hours on the road, though Kohaku isn’t complaining. They’ve been blessed with no traffic at all today, it seems, and they weave back and forth between lanes, passing one another and falling back again like they used to when they were idiot kids with their very first bikes.  
   
The countryside starts to give way to sand along the roadside, salt in the air, and before long they are pulling up alongside a stretch of ocean shoreline. In these two hours the sun has sunk further in the sky, nearly touching the horizon, now, and the choppy sea looks like it’s been lit on fire.  
   
They park their bikes and lean against the railing overlooking the beach. No one’s there save for a woman walking alone, trailing her feet in the water, and a group of teenagers off in the distance sharing what’s undoubtedly a stolen cigarette.  
   
“This is a pretty romantic locale for you to choose,” Kohaku teases, and out of the corner of his eye he can see Tatsuya smile.  
   
“I guess so,” he says. “But you know, Kohaku. You’ve realized it, right? That this isn’t real.”  
   
Kohaku closes his eyes for a long moment. The sound of the ocean waves rolling in and out seems suddenly muffled in his ears.  
   
“Yeah,” he says finally, opening them again. “I figured as much. A few months ago I dunno if I would’ve. Or maybe – maybe I wouldn’t have cared. But… those guys really knocked some sense into me.”  
   
“That’s what they’re there for.”  
   
Kohaku nods slowly. He opens his mouth and struggles for a time to find the right words before settling on: “I fucked up, Tatsuya. I did some pretty idiotic shit.”  
   
Tatsuya gives him a sidelong glance. “So, no different from your usual, then?”  
   
Kohaku blinks. He looks away and shakes his head, disbelieving as he laughs.  “Seriously? You’re gonna do this to me now?”  
   
In the silence after his laughter had faded, he can feel his smile slip.  
   
“Hey, Tatsuya,” he says. “What am I supposed to do?” He turns back to look at him and finds his expression sad again – not painful like before, but the quiet, accepting kind, which almost hurts worse to see. “I was right, I guess. All that stuff about staying alive for tomorrow. But it’s like – like I can’t see the things I used to. I can’t imagine anything anymore. We were supposed to get old together, weren’t we? And now there’s nothing left.”  
   
Tatsuya’s eyes soften. “You’ll see something new soon enough,” he says. “That’s how life goes, Kohaku. That’s what we wanted Mugen to be, right? A circle. You forgot it for a while, but you remember now, don’t you? Infinity doesn’t mean the same thing forever. It’s just… a continuation. Something worth waking up for will come back around in the end, as long as you’re still living.”  
   
Kohaku’s throat is thick as he swallows. He reaches out haltingly to palm Tatsuya’s neck, feeling that ghost of a pulse beneath his fingertips. When he steps in to kiss him it’s fierce, bruising, like every battle they’ve fought.  
   
“I miss you much,” he breathes into his mouth. He grabs the hem of his jacket and digs his fingers into the leather, like that might anchor them here.  
   
“I know,” Tatsuya says softly. He lifts a hand to splay it across his chest, right over his heart, and it feels a bit like being touched by warm light. “I know.”  
   
  
   
  
   
  
   
His head is throbbing.  
   
“Kohaku-san,” a voice says. They sound adamant, and worried, and he feels around through the jumbled mess of his brain until he manages to open his eyes just a sliver. The light – dim as it is – still manages to jab at him like needles through his forehead. Tsukumo is staring down at him, and he exhales with relief at the sight of him coming to, dragging a hand down his face.  
   
“Oh thank fuck,” he mutters. “Thought you were about to end up like me.”  
   
“What happened,” Kohaku manages. The words are difficult to form.  
   
“One of those punks hit you over the head with a cinder block while the other two were distracting you. Cowards.”  
   
They’re beneath an overpass, he realizes. Graffiti stares down at him from the walls, and he can feel weeds beneath his fingertips growing up through the cracked concrete. Kohaku struggles into a sitting position, Tsukumo supporting him with a hand on his back, and the feel of it makes him forget for a moment the eerie sensation of his scalp feeling like bruised, overripe fruit.  
   
“How long was I out?” he asks.  
   
“About fifteen minutes.”  
   
Kohaku takes a deep breath, then; huffs out a shaky laugh. “Fifteen minutes,” he echoes. “It felt like a whole day to me.”  
   
He’s grateful that Tsukumo says nothing as he lifts a hand to swipe at his prickling eyes.


End file.
